


The Thirteenth Day

by cookiegirl



Category: White Collar
Genre: Angst, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dogs, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-03-01 07:57:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18796198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cookiegirl/pseuds/cookiegirl
Summary: Almost two weeks after Neal's passing, Peter spends a quiet evening with Satchmo.





	The Thirteenth Day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Karios](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Karios/gifts).



The hardest part is supposed to be over. The funeral was a week ago. The case notes have been written up; the shooting of Keller has been reviewed and approved. Everything is done; everything is back to normal.

And nothing - _nothing_ \- is, or ever can be normal again.

Today was the first day that nobody mentioned Neal at work. Today was the first day a new case came in that demanded their attention, that couldn't be delayed or pawned off to a different department. Today was the start of a life where Neal was a memory rather than a person, and Peter felt like throwing up the entire time.

Now, sitting in his car in front of his house, clenching his fingers on the steering wheel, he wishes he hadn't told El that it was fine for her to go to San Francisco this morning. It was only a one night trip, he said when she told him she could call it off, and it was important for her business, and he would be okay. Except he's not okay, and he doesn't want to go into the house and be alone.

He doesn't have a choice.

He takes a breath, picks up his briefcase and exits the car, trudging up the path to his front door. The barest hint of a smile twitches at his lips when he hears the soft pad of Satchmo's feet on the wooden floor inside. At least he won't be completely alone.

He opens the door and Satchmo is at his feet already, winding through his legs and enthusiastically licking at the hand Peter reaches down to greet him with. But then Satchmo is nudging past him, looking through the partially-open door, his tail wagging excitedly, as if he's waiting for someone else.

And Peter realizes it's a Thursday. The day when Neal would almost always come to dinner; the day that Satchmo somehow always remembers. His chest tightens.

"Not...not today, boy," he says, trying to keep his voice even as he gently guides Satchmo's head back inside the house and locks the door behind him. "It's just me." Satchmo looks up at him expectantly, and Peter feels the weight of guilt grow heavier than ever. "Sorry, boy," he says, reaching down again to scratch the dog's ears, and Satchmo cocks his head to the side and lets his tongue loll appreciatively, as if letting Peter know that he'll do, for now.

Peter doesn't know how to tell him that Neal won't be coming for dinner any more. Satchmo should know, Peter thinks; he should have a chance to grieve for his friend who always snuck him treats and who would play with him on the floor even if it crumpled his expensive suits. But there's no way to make the dog understand, not that Peter can think of. He sighs, and heads upstairs to change out of his work clothes, Satchmo padding up the steps behind him.

\---

Dinner is takeout pizza which Peter eats on the couch, straight out the box, Satchmo lying at his feet. Peter realizes, halfway through the pie, that it's not the same pizza he would have ordered a couple years ago. It's not greasy and floppy; it's not from the cheap place around the corner that sells slices for ninety-nine cents. It's an artisan sourdough pizza, with artichoke hearts and chargrilled courgettes, from the overpriced shop four blocks away. It's the pizza Neal made him a fan of, as he slowly but surely weaned him off pepperoni and meatballs over multiple evenings working cases in Peter’s living room. Peter swallows hard, the dough suddenly tough in his mouth, and feels his eyes start to sting.

He hasn’t cried much. A little at night, under the cover of darkness, El sleeping silently next to him, or sometimes holding him as tight as she can. But during the day, he’s been solid - doing what has to be done, organizing the necessities, being a rock for El, and his team at work, and even June and Mozzie. 

Right here, right now, though, there’s nobody to be strong for. 

Satchmo looks up from his place on the floor, his attention drawn by Peter’s shuddering intake of breath, and Peter blinks, shakes his head. He doesn’t need to fall apart. He offers the last half-eaten slice of pizza to Satch, and the dog eats out of his hand, then licks the grease from the tips of Peter’s fingers. Then, without an invitation, Satchmo jumps up onto the couch, nudges the pizza box off Peter’s lap, and lays down next to Peter, his head resting on his knee, his eyes gazing up at him. It's as if he's asking him a question.

Peter strokes his head slowly, softly, and scratches him behind the ears. “Satch…” he says, his voice thick. “Boy, I have to tell you something.” He feels ridiculous, but also like he has to say the words, like he owes Satchmo the truth, even if the words are incomprehensible to him. “It’s about Neal. You know Neal, you love him. And he loved you too, so much. The two of you had such good fun together. But boy, he’s...he’s not gonna be coming around again. He’s… not here anymore. I’m sorry, Satch. I tried to keep him safe, but - I -”

Peter feels a tear slip down his cheek, and then one becomes two, and three, and a flood that he can’t stop, and he’s sobbing. He feels rather than sees Satchmo shift on his lap, and then suddenly the weight of the dog is against his chest, and Satch is licking his face, his hot, rough tongue wiping the tears from Peter’s cheeks. Peter doesn’t deserve the comfort, doesn’t feel like he’s earned it, but still - Peter wraps his arms around the dog and holds him close, and lets himself cry. For the first time, he cries with abandon, until he has nothing left, until he has only dry sobs and a hollow chest.

Satchmo stays with him the whole time, licking up his tears and then resting his head on Peter’s shoulder, his soft fur rubbing against the skin of Peter’s neck and jaw. And Peter lets himself believe the silly, fanciful notion that Satchmo understands what he’s been told, that Satchmo knows what happened and forgives Peter for not saving his friend. _Their _friend. He lets himself believe that Satchmo thinks he did everything he could.__

__He doesn’t move from the couch for the rest of the night. He just lies down, and Satch curls into him, warm and heavy against his side, his breathing loud and raspy in Peter’s ear. And Peter sleeps through the night for the first time in thirteen days._ _


End file.
